Tormented by grief for his beloved son, King Dasharatha sat with Kausalya, who herself was suffering deeply over Rama’s exile. Remembering his own past misdeed, Dasharatha spoke to her, his voice heavy with sorrow. “O noble lady,” he began, “whatever a person does—good or bad—that alone becomes the fruit of their actions. None escape the consequences of their deeds, O fortunate one.” He continued, reflecting on the nature of wisdom and folly. “He who does not know the weight or lightness of wealth, nor the results of actions at their outset, nor their faults, is but a child. Imagine someone who cuts down a mango grove, then waters palāśa trees; seeing their flowers, he hopes for fruit, but grieves when the fruiting season arrives and there is none. So too, one who acts without knowing the result grieves when the fruit of his actions manifest, just like the one who waters the kimśuka tree, longing for fruit that will never come.” Dasharatha confessed, “I am that fool. Having cut down the mango grove and watered the palāśa trees, I have abandoned Rama at the time of fruit, and now, in my ignorance, I grieve. Because of a sound, O Kausalya, by a prince bearing a bow, I committed a sin, thinking, ‘He is a sound-shooter.’ Thus, this sorrow—self-caused—has come upon me. Through confusion, like a child, one might eat poison, and so have I brought this misery upon myself.” He likened his experience to another man deluded by palāśa trees, “So too, the fruit of shooting by sound, unknown to me, has come. You were unmarried, O queen, and I became king. Then the rainy season arrived, stirring my desires.” He painted a vivid picture of that fateful time. “Having enjoyed earthly delights, the sun, after heating the world with his rays, entered another region, following the path of the dead. The heat was held within, clouds appeared glossy, and frogs, deer, and peacocks rejoiced. Birds, their wings wet and uplifted, as if bathed with difficulty, flocked to the trees, shaken by rain and wind. Deer, intoxicated and covered again and again by falling water, appeared like mountain masses with water. Streams, though pure, flowed from mountain slopes, white and red, streaked with ash like serpents. Even the pure streams, their waters reddened and agitated, began to overflow their banks and run off course with the coming of the rains.” “At that most pleasant time, armed with bow and arrows, intent on exercise, I drove my chariot along the Sarayu river. At the watering places, I sought to kill a buffalo or an elephant that had come to the river at night, or some other animal whose tracks I might find. With uncontrolled senses, I lay in wait.” He recounted the tragic moment. “There, alone at night, my bow drawn, I killed a wild creature that had come to the riverbank, concealed in the brush. Hearing the sound of another fierce animal approaching, I listened. In the darkness, I heard the noise of something moving in the water near a pot. Within the range of hearing, I heard a sound like an elephant trumpeting. I drew forth a sharp arrow, blazing like a serpent’s venom, and, aiming at the sound, desiring an elephant, released that keen arrow, deadly as serpent’s poison.” “At dawn, a clear human voice arose from the forest, crying ‘Alas, alas!’ as one struck in the vital parts by an arrow fell into the water. When the arrow struck, a human voice was heard: ‘How could a weapon fall upon one like me, devoted to austerity? At night, I came to this secluded river to draw water; by whom have I been struck with an arrow? What wrong have I done to anyone? How can one like me, a sage who has renounced violence and lives in the forest on wild food, be slain by a weapon? Who would seek my death, burdened as I am with matted hair, clad in bark and skins? What harm have I done to him? Such an act, fruitless and only bringing harm, would be condemned by all, just as one who approaches his teacher’s wife. I do not grieve so much for the loss of my own life, but for my mother and father, who are like me. That aged couple, long supported by me—when I am gone, who will care for them? My aged mother and father, and I too, are all slain by a single arrow—by a mere boy, ignorant of himself.’” Dasharatha’s voice trembled as he recalled, “Hearing those pitiful words, my heart yearning for righteousness, my bow and arrow fell from my hands to the ground as I was overcome with anguish. Hearing his sorrowful cries in the night, I, greatly agitated and overwhelmed by grief, became utterly distraught. When I reached that place, my spirit broken and my mind deeply troubled, I saw the ascetic lying dead on the bank of the Sarayu, struck by an arrow. His matted hair was scattered, his water pot overturned and emptied, his body stained with blood, and he lay pierced and tormented by the shaft.” “He looked at me with his eyes, though I was fearful and agitated in mind, and spoke harsh words, as if burning with his energy. ‘What wrong have I done to you, O King, as I dwelt in the forest, that you, wishing to take water for your own purpose, have struck me down? With a single arrow striking my vital spot, both my blind and aged parents—my mother and my father—are now as good as slain. Surely those two, weak and blind, are waiting for me, parched with thirst, enduring for long the cruel torment of hope. Truly, there is no fruit of asceticism or of learning, since my father does not know that I lie fallen here upon the ground.’” Dasharatha’s confession to Kausalya was filled with remorse and anguish, as he relived the consequences of his past action—a moment of ignorance that brought suffering not only to himself, but to innocent lives.